Vertigo
by electricsymphony
Summary: Rory Huntzberger is a closet romantic fed up with her indifferent façade, disenfranchised with her unsatisfying society life and everyone in it. Logan Hayden is a high-energy, idealistic tech-genius with a chip on his shoulder about love, marriage and society's elite. When these warped iterations of Rory and Logan meet, will it really turn out much different from canon? Rogan. AU.
1. I -- Rory

**Notes:** I'm having a very hard time figuring out where I'm going with 'Entropy'. I've been trying to write it for many months, and it hasn't gotten anywhere good. Actually, I've been trying to write _anything_ for months and it hasn't gone well. But this - well, I was listening to the song ' _Aristocrat'_ by ' _New Politics'_ and for some reason, even though the song has very little to do with what this story became, it eventually melded into this idea. I have no idea why, but I'm happy it did, because I think this is going to be really fun. Role-reversals are always a blast, and I don't think I've seen any with this premise for Rogan before, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

For the sake of this story, there is a couple things I will divulge beforehand that isn't obvious from the chapter: Rory's mother is still Lorelai; her father is Mitchum Huntzberger, however. We'll find out how that happened later on. For Logan, his mother is still Shira, but his father is Christopher Hayden. They still both look the same as their canon counterparts. Also, Rory and Logan have switched ages-in this story, Rory is two years older than Logan, not the other way around.

Also, this is a role-reversal, yes, but it's not as simple as them simply switching personalities. It's not a switch of personalities-it's a switch of life situations. It's my take on what could've happened to these characters if their lives had been swapped and how their personalities would change and stay the same. So, let's have some fun, shall we? ;)

I hope you enjoy. :)

 **Disclaimer:** 'Gilmore Girls', its characters, plot lines and premise belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.

* * *

 **Vertigo**

(One – Rory)

November 15th, 2003

* * *

The harsh, acidic burn of vodka in the back of her throat was still annoyingly prevalent an hour after she'd taken two shots in the back of Rosemary's limo. Rory had never been much of a drinker, so her system wasn't what you could call 'acclimated', but recently she'd taken a strong liking to the numbing feeling it spread down from tingles in her scalp to the wiggling of her toes. She was –

"Rory!"

— She was definitely feeling the burden of…

"Rory!"

She whipped her head up so quickly she had to blink back a few times to focus the picture in front of her. "For god's sake, Juliet, _what?_ "

Her blonde companion did not seem to notice Rory's frustration, fidgeting in the mirror with the hem of her already very short dress. It wasn't the ditzy blonde who answered Rory however, as the reprimanding voice reverberated from right beside her, the exasperated redhead rubbing her temples with her fingertips. "This is the most important party of the year, Ror—could you at least _pretend_ you're interested?"

Rory smirked, a throaty—(fake, flimsy, practiced)—laugh bubbling inside her chest, "I _am_ interested, Rose. I'm not missing a front row seat to watch the welt that'll spread on Darren Belby's face after he gets smacked by Juilet's forty pound cosmetic bag if he tries to feel her up again."

"You're a lost cause, Huntzberger," Rose teased mercilessly; "But we already knew that, didn't we? It was confirmed in the sixth grade that Ms. Ice-Queen only gets pleasure at someone else's misfortune."

It didn't matter how many times Rory could hear comments like that, she still had to make a concentrated effort not to flinch.

"Hello, have you forgotten about me?" Juliet called in irritation from her spot surrounded by a three-fold mirror; "Comments on the dress, please?"

"It looks fantastic, Jules; you're gonna knock 'em dead," Rose assured her friend with a sly smile.

Rory just rolled her eyes, taking in the dress with an appraising eye; "Belby isn't going to have to try too hard to feel you up, Jules – there's so little material all he'll have to do is accidentally brush your thigh."

Somewhere in the back of her mind Rory heard Rose's resigned sigh and Juliet's scoff of indignation, but she just tuned them out. She was so tired of this same endless routine—she'd say something bitchy, Rose would call her out on it, and Juliet would be mad for all of five minutes until something flashy caught her eye.

Rory hated just about everything in her prison cell of a life—from the hoards of preppy, posh twats clamoring at the bit to get the attention of the Huntzberger heiress to the meaningless, passionless conversations she was forced to engage in on a daily basis to the expectations placed on her to be exactly what people thought a spoiled heiress to a multi-million dollar media conglomerate should be. And she lived up to the hype – she got a sick pleasure in it, really. She'd had so much pent up anger brewing deep in the caverns of her mind for the past thirteen years that she—unfairly, she knew—took it out on everyone in her immediate surroundings.

Well, she _used_ to get a sick pleasure in rising to everyone's horrible expectations of her. It was all an act, sure, but she usually enjoyed it. Perhaps it was the idea of ' _acting_ ' that held her feeble, fragile existence together in the first place; if she convinced herself she was living someone else's life, she wouldn't ever have to put a microscope to her own. Or maybe it was just a meticulously crafted mission to ruin her father's reputation. She suspected it was both.

Lately, she'd been yearning for something real. It had been a very long time since she'd wanted anything of substance. She _chose_ to live in this fictional reality of a persona she'd created ever since—well, ever since thirteen years ago when she'd lost her best friend. But this… _her_ … her rude comments and obnoxious demeanor was driving _herself_ up a wall lately, it was no wonder everyone hated her.

Juliet wasn't taking Rory's sarcasm with grace this time around, though. "Why do you have to be such a bitch _today_ of all days, anyway? Can't you have a little fucking respect for what I'm going through?"

Rory coughed, her throat constricting painfully as she stared, flabbergasted, at Juliet's indignant frown. _'Today of all days?'_ Her façade seemed to fade into abstraction entirely as pricks of genuine tears formed in her eyes—"I… what?"

How could these two have any idea what today was?

"Oh my god," Juliet hissed, wrenching a scarf off a nearby hanger and waving it angrily in front of her face, "You've got no idea what the hell I'm talking about. Classic Rory Huntzberger—selfish, insensitive bitch. Sometimes—just once in a blue moon—I see something decent in you, but then you go and do something like this and I have to remind myself I'm just hallucinating."

At Rory's dumbstruck expression, Rose chimed in, "Ror, today is the one year anniversary of Juliet's break-up with Paul."

It was… what?! Oh god, they were fucking serious. Rory's fists clenched, the tears in her eyes hardened to ice and she grabbed the shopping bags at her feet. "If you two are just going to wallow about a pathetic heartbreak, I'm leaving. I don't need that kind of irrelevant bullshit to bring me down." _Not today._

She stalked out of the dressing room, her vision swimming with stinging tears in her eyes, her heart torn between sobs of despair and wicked rage, and Juliet's screech of anger trailed behind her ominously—"You're going to end up alone if you keep treating people like this, Huntzberger. Guys may be enticed by the witch in the beginning, but eventually they learn to run like hell."

* * *

Rory flung the meaningless sack of clothes onto the sofa and poured herself a generous quantity of some amber liquid from her father's liquor collection, not that she cared what it was. It could've been laced with arsenic for all she cared at the moment.

She could sense his presence before he even spoke. He had a commanding hold on the earth's gravitational pull, as though he could spike temperatures in the ozone or raise sea levels with a simple swish of his hand. "You're _drinking_ now, Lorelai?"

Rolling her eyes, she sat on the sofa, facing away from him, a blaring headache forming behind her eyes; "How many times have I told you that I don't answer to that, Dad?"

Mitchum pulled his brows into a hard, severe line. "It's your goddamn name, why the hell not?"

"Because it's not my name!" She barked back, her voice an octave higher, a little bit of vulnerability and desperation seeping into her tone. Taking a slow, deep breath, knowing she'd regret this, she whispered, "It's _hers._ "

"Your mother and I—"

"My mother and you _nothing!_ " She shouted, rising to her feet, heat rising in her cheeks and her legs buckling beneath her. "Don't you dare say a fucking thing about her, Dad _._ You didn't know her—you never did, you never cared to find out a thing about her." A choke formed in the back of her throat and she snarled to cover it up, hating showing this much weakness to her father. "My mother was more than just your shiny trophy wife you could unpack at society parties; god, so much more. She was a hundred times the person you'll ever be."

"Goddammit, child, listen to me when I speak! Your mother and I—"

She shook her head vehemently, refusing to listen, "My _mother_ named me Lorelai. You had nothing to do with it—where were you when I was born, anyway? London, Paris, Tokyo? The Cayman Islands? Is it true you had a mistress there? I always wondered, people always gossiped, but since you're such a racist, prejudiced asshole I figured you wouldn't screw anything that didn't speak English."

His jaw ticked, and she nearly smirked in victory. "Your mother is gone—has been for a long time. Let it go, Lorelai. You're an adult, not a child who needs a mother to tuck her into bed at night."

"I'm well aware of how long my mother has been gone, thank you," she dismissed, her voice icy and dangerous. "Thirteen years today. I don't need you to tell me that."

His eyes widened slightly, but then a menacing laugh soon followed. "For god's sake, _that's_ why you're drinking and being such a whiny, pathetic little bitch today—because it's the anniversary of your mother's death? Grow the fuck up, Lorelai. Only children care about things like that."

It wasn't the fact that he dismissed her feelings as childish that stabbed her like a sharp blade in the gut—it was the fact that _he didn't know._ He wasn't even aware that his wife had died on this day thirteen years ago.

Dismissing her emotion as though it had never happened, he continued, cold and callous, "As I was saying—your mother and I named you Lorelai. You will answer to the proper title, just like you regard others by their proper title."

Unwilling to cry in front of her father, she summoned all of her courage to will her usual wall of defense, leaned back with a sinister smile on her face, and replied, sickly sweet and wickedly sardonic, "Fine _Mitchum,_ you were the one who summoned me here. What can I do for you?"

He poured himself a drink of his own—filled to the brim, and he downed half of it in one swallow—and sat down on the couch opposite her. "We have to discuss your academic performance—"

"My grades are never anything but perfect and you know it."

"—at the paper."

She paused, remaining stoic and silent at this declaration.

Producing a newspaper from the table next to him, he threw it down between them angrily. "Do you know what this is?"

She grinned, a cocky, condescending smirk on her lips. "I don't frequent the newsroom often, but I _do_ know what a newspaper is, Dad."

"Don't be cute, Lorelai," he admonished, "It's a front page article written by someone who isn't you. And you want to know what else?" He picked it up and threw it in her lap, "It's _damn_ good. This Renée Holloway—who the fuck is this nobody? I've never heard her surname in my life, and she's stealing the front page away from _my_ daughter? The Huntzberger Heiress? Do you know how that looks, Lorelai; do you know what kind of message that sends?"

Rory sighed over-dramatically, "That I have a life and more important things to do with my time than falling asleep at a newsdesk?"

He ignored her snark completely. "I want you to talk to this Renée Holloway—get her story, figure out her weakness and exploit them. I know you can do _that._ You're an amazing writer, Lorelai, that's why _you're_ the heiress and not Honor. Your sister can't write for shit, and don't you dare make me regret bestowing you with this responsibility. It's time to get some motherfucking motivation and show this Holloway bitch who's really running the show."

Rory almost choked on thin air—"You want me to _what_?!"

He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a toddler; "Find her. Throw your name around to threaten her. Take her next front page article and do better. Simple enough for you?"

Nearly bubbling over in laughter at the irony, she just nodded, "Crystal, _Daddy Dearest_."

Standing up suddenly, Mitchum collected himself, straightened his tie, and picked up his briefcase, "I have a meeting in Boston. Don't take what I said lightly, Lorelai—I swear to god I'll come down to Yale and crush that Holloway girl myself if it comes to it."

Oh, dear god—the chaos _that_ would cause. She had maintained this secret for so long, she wasn't about to let it all go to waste.

"I'll take care of it."

The direct, sharp conviction of her tone must've shocked Mitchum, because he noticeably stilled his movements and smiled. "This has been productive after all, then."

She smiled, all saccharine sarcasm, her head cocked in amusement; "Has it?"

"Don't ruin it, Lorelai," he reprimanded sharply, and before she could blink, he was out the door.

As soon as he was gone, she pressed the cold chill of her glass to her forehead and closed her eyes. He was going to come barraging into the Yale newsroom and find Renée Holloway _himself?_ Jesus Christ, this was a disaster. She _had not_ worked this hard to fold at the hands of her father's domineering intrusions. She flipped open her cell phone, dialing a familiar number and waiting only a single ring before the person answered.

"Ror? Hun, I've been caught in meetings all day or I would've called sooner—how are you holding up?"

She didn't bother swallowing the choke of emotion in her voice this time, tears sliding down her face—she had nothing to hide with her sister. "He doesn't remember, Honor. Our own fucking bastard of a father doesn't remember the anniversary of Mom's death."

* * *

It was still late afternoon when she got back to her dorm, but the emotional upheaval of the day made her want to crawl in bed and stay there until news hit in a few years of her father's inevitably impending heart attack. Instead, she was greeted by the ferocious windstorm of energy also known as her best friend Paris. A crafty smile on her lips, she teased, "Hey, what if I wanted to make a log cabin out of popsicle sticks? Way to hog all the supplies for yourself, Geller."

Paris raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Very funny, Huntzberger. Everyone's a fucking comedian today. Do you remember the last time I tried to get you to do crafts with me?"

"Was that the time I accidentally glued the soles of Doyle's shoes together?" Rory asked rhetorically, knowing full well it was.

Paris snorted in derision, "Right—' _accidentally'_. It's a wonder he does all the shit he does for you."

"Speaking of, I'm on my way to a story right now. I just wanted to come back first and change."

"Oh?" Paris asked in curiosity. "What's the subject?"

"A guy named Logan Hayden—some freshman tech-genius who developed an online magazine that's apparently supposed to become a lot of competition for the Daily News."

Paris stared, mouth agape. "Doyle gave you the 'Syntax' expose?"

"Jealous?" Rory prodded, a sly smile on her lips.

"Extremely," Paris responded, as blunt as ever. "Do you think he'll sign it?"

"They _all_ sign it," Rory waved off the concern with nonchalance, "They're all so curious as to what _Rory Huntzberger_ is doing as a middleman that they'd sign away their first born child if I asked them to."

"Where were you all day, anyway?" Paris asked suddenly.

Rory's lips pulled into a tight line, a heavy dose of scorn and malice in her expression. "Out shopping with Rose and Juliet."

Paris' expression wasn't much better. "You're kidding—those two are gonna end up as washed up, coked up reality TV stars, you know that, right? They have the combined IQ of a grapefruit. Why do you hang out with bitches like that?"

Her expression dark, Rory grimaced. "You know the answer to that."

"Oh, right," Paris rolled her eyes, a heavy sigh escaping her lips, "Because that's your image. You're mad at the entire world, so you let everyone believe you're some airhead ditz without a shred of intelligence, dignity or kindness in your entire body. For god knows what reason…"

"I have my reasons," Rory bit back harshly.

"Fine," Paris relented, "I believe you. Really, I do. But one day you're going to meet someone who's worth breaking that ridiculous image for—someone who won't need a confidentiality agreement to realize who you really are—and what do you planning on doing then?"

Rory laughed, genuine and sincere, deep from the depths of her soul—a rarity for her, really. "That almost sounded dopey and romantic, Paris. Who are you and what have you done with Paris Geller?"

"Yeah, well… despite public knowledge, _you're_ dopey and romantic." She paused a beat, a sardonic smile on her pale lips—"Besides, Doyle assigned me a piece on reviewing Yale's top ten favorite chick flicks. I guess the poison is seeping into my brain faster than expected."

"You ate one of his coveted cucumber squares without permission again, didn't you?"

Paris shook her head in amusement. "It's scary how you just know things like that."

"Alright," Rory grabbed her purse and keys off the coffee table and mock saluted, "I'll be back with a story, Bernie."

"I'm serious, Ror. One day you're going to meet a guy you want to be yourself with."

"Doubtful," Rory dismissed—"Take that betting attitude to play the ponies, Paris, 'cause my love life—or lack thereof—is not something you want to be invested in. The stock valuations are not looking good."

Before Paris could respond, Rory walked out the door, shouting back with a sarcastic laugh, "Save me one of Doyle's cucumber squares for later, 'kay?"

* * *

Logan had read a lot of Renée Holloway's articles, and the girl had a hell of a lot of talent. He may have been the chief executive of the code and script part of the website, but he wrote a few pieces every once in a while, and there was nothing he appreciated more than a dedicated, hard-working journalist, and this girl was it. Needless to say, he was quite excited to meet her.

So when he wrenched the door open, enthused and excited, only to be met with the smirking face of _Rory Huntzberger,_ his heart dropped. Oh yeah, he knew this bitch. The Ice-Queen herself, as they called her. He knew girls like her—she skated by on strings of sheer nepotism, threats and wads of cash. Worse, though, people like him and Renée Holloway had to work—had to put sweat and tears into everything they manifested—to get a little recognition. This bitch had gained the rights to the biggest media empire in the country simply because she was born.

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here?" He spat, holding back none of the venom he felt for this spoiled society brat.

"Well, I have to say, that's the kindest greeting I've ever received from a complete stranger—how sweet of you, Logan," she quipped easily.

His dark eyes were a clear indication that he was not amused. "I don't know what sick game you're playing Huntzberger, but get out of my hallway. I'm expecting company that's actually worth the paper she writes on—not that you've ever written _anything_ in your life, let alone something of significance."

"Ouch, that stings, Hayden—care to kiss it better?" Her smirk was all coy, sly seduction—(fake, fake, so fake she was surprised it didn't rip a gaping hole in her chest).

His voice was a vicious snarl—"Fuck no, and do I really have to repeat myself?"

"And here I heard you were quite the ladies man," she admonished playfully. "Was I misinformed?"

A small curve of a half-smirk appeared on his lips as he quipped back, "Yes, _ladies—_ as in women with an ounce of substance in their bodies. As in, _not you._ "

"Such cruel words," she tsked, "Alright, junior—relax. Renée Holloway doesn't meet any potential interviewee without a confidentiality agreement swearing to uphold her identity as privileged information. Don't go all Bonaduce on my ass, I'm simply the middleman."

Logan was understandably dumbstruck. Why would Renée Holloway allow someone like Rory Huntzberger to be her middleman, and why the hell the need for a confidentiality agreement?

"Is this a joke?"

Rory smiled ominously. "I assure you it's not. Ms. Holloway takes all this very seriously. Do you want to see the documentation?" Without waiting for an answer, she produced a page from a file in her shoulder bag and held it out for him. He grabbed it without giving her a shred of eye-contact and inspected every inch of it.

"This is notarized," he said after five long minutes of Rory tapping her heel impatiently.

"It took you five minutes to deduce _that?_ "

He glared fiercely. "This is real, it's not some fucked up sorority girl prank."

"Gee, you sure catch on quick," she drawled, dry sarcasm dripping off her every word.

He glanced around the hallway nervously, "Get inside."

"Ooh, changed your tune already?" She raised a suggestive eyebrow.

"Fuck you, Huntzberger." He shut the door behind her, trying to analyze this in his head and coming up completely blank. "Why are _you_ involved in this, anyway?"

Rory smiled mysteriously. "Let's just say Renée and I are old friends."

He snorted; "I doubt that."

"Are you going to sign it or not? I have better things to be doing," Rory glared, this time truly irked, as the personal digs were getting old.

"Oh, really? What?" He prodded scathingly. "Shopping in over-priced designer stores with your insipid friends? Making world domination plans with Daddy Dearest?"

She winced visibly, his insight into her mundane, repetitive life unsettling.

"Just sign the fucking thing and I'll be out of your way."

This time, a genuine smile passed his face. "Gladly."

He hurriedly signed the document, passed it back to her and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "So, where is she?"

"You're looking at her," Rory said with no hesitation.

Logan's vocal chords seemed to be twisted around his tongue. "Excuse me?"

Rory sighed, having enough of this charade. She took the signed document, stuffed it back in its file and pulled out a pen and her most prized and secret possession—her book. This book contained stories, truths and secrets that could easily obliterate the very shaky ground she walked on. It never left her side, and even Honor and Paris had never read it. In some ways, it was her closest confidante.

"Renée Holloway is a penname—in layman's terms, _I'm_ Renée Holloway."

"I know what a goddamn penname is, Huntzberger!" Logan bit back, confounded and irritated—two of his least favorite emotions. This didn't make any sense—Rory Huntzberger had written those articles? The society rich bitch Ice-Queen who didn't give a flying fuck about journalism or her family's empire?

"You— _you_ wrote the insider spotlight on Seymour Hersh? The piece about the Hindu-Muslim Gujarat violence in India? Nuclear Arms in North Korea? The op-ed about UNICEF?" He looked downright bewildered now. " _UNICEF?_ Wouldn't that actually indicate you gave a shit about someone other than yourself?"

Her smile was dwindling now—this charade of nonchalance was getting hard to maintain when someone was maiming her character into shreds like this. But _why?_ Hundreds— _thousands_ —of people had ripped her integrity to shreds before, why did it matter now? What was it about this angry kid with the deep, expressive chestnut eyes and the easy half-smirk that made her feel so ashamed of the way she acted sometimes?

Her voice was calm, quiet, resigned. "Y'know, for someone who's calling me out on being a snobby rich kid, you sure are being pretty judgmental to someone you don't even know."

"Can you blame me?" He asked incredulously.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do." She was going to be as direct and to the point as possible, leaving no room for contention. "We're both journalists, no?" He didn't seem to know whether she wanted an answer to this, but he nodded slowly, hesitantly—as if he didn't believe what he was hearing just yet. "You're going to forget what you know about me, we're going to start over, and I'm going to write an unbiased article about your magazine, doing you a favor and forgetting every negative barb you've thrown my way since I stepped in the door. Got it?"

His eyes were still ablaze with hate, but he nodded with a grim expression. She wasn't sure if she liked the fact that she was intimidating him—it just meant she had inherited something else from her brute of a father.

"So…" An easy, genuine smile crossed her lips, so starkly different from the sly smiles and smirks and seductions of before and she reached out her hand, "I'm Renée Holloway. You are?"

He looked down at her hand as if it was infected. "Logan Hayden," he replied, not touching her hand. She seemed to let it go. He didn't know if he was relieved or suspicious.

"Alright, Logan—" she took out her pad and pen, sat in his armchair without permission, her posture all straight, hard lines and gestured to his computer, "What, in your opinion, is the building block of your magazine—the writing it markets or the coding that holds it together?"

* * *

 **Notes:** So, Logan _really_ hates Rory. Well, to be fair, Rory hated Logan to begin with, too. ;) We'll find out a lot more about Logan's life, his adventures and his disdain for rich people in the next chapter. In subsequent chapters, we'll also find out more about Rory and the inner workings of her very confused mind, her public charade of a personality and why she writes under a penname. I hope you're as excited as I am.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you enjoyed, have comments, suggestions, or constructive criticism. :)


	2. II -- Logan

**Notes:** I've come to the realization that the hardest part of this entire story is not going to be characterization continuity, it's not going to be planning, it's not even going to be coming up with unique ideas. It's going to be writing Christopher in a favorable light. God, I forgot how much I hate him. I hope his part in this chapter came through as genuine enough without the very obvious fact that I despise his very being. I hope I learn to like his warped iteration during the span of this story more than I like his canon iteration. One can dream.

Droolia pointed out something important to me about this story last time: Another change to canon is that Lorelai is about ten years older than she was in the show. I think everyone agrees that if Lorelai was sixteen and Mitchum was thirty-five, that'd be beyond gross. The fact that Lorelai is older also plays into Rory's changed relationship with her maternal grandparents, as briefly inquired by CloudyDream.

I always yack too much before a chapter, so I'm just going to get right into this one, no fuss. I'm trying to get better at that.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

(Two – Logan)

November 23rd, 2003

* * *

His town never appeared quite as small as it did during the first snow of the season. The lot of them got very excited for Christmas – there were bright lights, inflatable snowmen and fake reindeer on every corner, and everything felt – peaceful, serene… tranquil, really. There was a certain joy Logan associated with the holiday season, and it had nothing to do with religion, cutting down pine trees or a jolly old imaginary fat-ass idolized by kids around the nation. No, it had more to do with the beaming smile on his father's face every time they'd go ice-fishing deep in the woods, sharing tuna melt sandwiches over a creaky, old dilapidated wood furnace. Or perhaps it was the twinkling of mirth in his father's hazel eyes as he gave the signal to jiggle the back door and break into Tom's for some stolen eggnog. His father dove headfirst into the Christmas Spirit, mischievous and childlike as ever, and ever since he was a kid, Logan had been dragged along for the ride.

Christmas reminded him of his father. It reminded him of his childhood, of relaxation – of nice, old-fashioned peace of mind.

He wasn't feeling any of that today.

Today, his mind was stuffed to the brim with thoughts of puzzles, enigmas and questions he really didn't want answered. If there was one thing Logan Hayden couldn't resist, it was a good puzzle. He'd been doing crossword puzzles with his father since he was five years old, had been a hell of a chess player all his life and was the best damn poker player Cheshire High School had ever seen. This girl… he didn't enjoy the fact that he was intrigued by her, for obvious reasons – it felt like a betrayal of the grandest measure. But, all the same… she was so _interesting._ He still wasn't quite convinced that her whole Renée routine wasn't just some elaborate ruse, knowing what he knew about her and what she was capable of, but at the same time, he felt paralyzed by her compassionate smile, the twinkle of laughter in her mesmerizing eyes and the way she made you feel like the only person in the world.

 _No,_ he scolded himself forcefully. Rory Huntzberger was a cold-hearted, selfish, Machiavellian mastermind, there was no doubt in his mind. She was just a really good actress. He wouldn't be the first to be lured in by her sweet, false promises and bitten by her sharp teeth; he knew _that_ with a profound sense of sadness.

It didn't matter how interesting she was – it didn't matter that his skin burned with the desire to unravel her mysteries, none of that mattered. He knew who Rory Huntzberger really was, what she had done, and what she _would_ do if he fell for her falsely sweet charms and deceptions. He nodded resolutely. Once this article was out, he'd go back to ignoring the issue of her existence – just like he'd promised six years ago.

"You've got an addiction, kid – you know your grandmother wants to send you to rehab, thinks energy drinks are pseudo-drugs that lead into harder shit."

Logan nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn't even heard his father's footsteps climb down the stairs. He turned the page of his newspaper, giving his father an incredulous eyebrow raise and nothing else.

"Where do you want to go, man? There's so many options – Florida, California?" Chris' smirk was positively lethal, sharp with sarcastic delight; "We could go exotic, if you want. Barbados, Bora-Bora, Thailand…"

"Dad," Logan interrupted with an amused snort; "Seriously – you know Grandma, she's bat shit crazy. Give her a G&T and she'll stop yammering on about my drinking habits and start indulging in her own."

"I went to Thailand in high school," Chris mused thoughtfully, ignoring his son's interruption – "…goddamn gorgeous women, you sure you don't want to reconsider?"

Logan's lips pulled into a sardonic smile – "Oh, well… if Thailand is the _only_ place on earth with beautiful women, I say sign me up."

"Smartass," Chris snickered under his breath.

"Better than being a dumbass," he chortled back.

"Y'know, I never talked to _my_ father like that," Chris scolded playfully.

"Yeah, 'cause Grandpa's a dick."

Chris opened the refrigerator, took out a cold beer and sat down in the chair next to him. "Too true, my boy – too true."

After a heavy, long lapse in conversation, Chris snatched the paper from Logan's hands despite his vehement cries of protest and laid it down out of reach. "Alright, tell me what's on your mind."

Logan furrowed his brows. "Who says I've got anything on my mind? How d'you know it's not just a big empty void up there?"

"Well, you're not actually _reading_ the paper, you're just glaring at the words – trust me, I can tell. Call it parental intuition. Secondly, you haven't touched your Red Bull in five minutes, and if _that's_ not enough cause for concern, you're doing that weird Drew Barrymore side-mouth stroke thing. That's your tell – you're deep in concentration, and it's not about a newspaper article."

Ignoring Chris' inquisitive smile, Logan glared harshly as he realized his lips were in fact twitching. Giving up, he took a long swig of his Red Bull, sighed in pleasure as the beautiful liquid slid down effortlessly, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Alright, yeah, Dad, your spidey senses aren't defective. I've got something on my mind – but you're wrong, it _is_ about a newspaper article. Well…" a dark grimace spread on his face – "It's also about a girl."

"And why is _that_ unusual?" Chris teased slyly, "You've had a girl on your mind 24/7 ever since you fell in love with Ms. Abrams in the third grade."

"Man, she was hot; those tight sweaters and those legs, damn…" Logan whistled low, humorous – just a brief distraction from the woman who was really on his mind. "No, this time a girl isn't on my mind 'cause she's hot, she's on my mind 'cause I hate her."

Chris let out a bark of laughter. "You hate a girl? C'mon, Logan – girls are your favorite species. I didn't think you _could_ hate a girl."

"Oh, believe me – I'm very capable of hating this one," he grumbled darkly.

"Alright, man – that's not enough to go on. I'm gonna need some more information about Public Enemy #1."

Logan practically spat out her name – "Rory Huntzberger."

Chris' lips pulled into a thin line, a crease of thought in his forehead. "Why does that name sound familiar? Rory…" he took a second before a flash of recognition passed his features. "Colin? Colin's… _that_ Huntzberger?"

Logan nodded stoically.

"Well, shit," Chris swore in surprise; "That _is_ enough information. Wait… what does this have to do with a newspaper article?"

Taking another sip of Red Bull, Logan answered dejectedly, "She's writing an article about 'Syntax' for the Daily News. Under a penname, of all goddamn things. I can't… I don't know why she's writing under a penname, and it's driving me insane." His eyes widened a bit, "Make sure you don't say that to anyone, though – fucking bitch got me to sign a confidentiality agreement. If she knew I broke it, her family's hoards of lawyers would tear us apart limb from limb."

"Wouldn't be the first time she helped her family tear someone apart limb from limb, would it?" Chris asked rhetorically.

Logan immediately bristled – "I don't want to talk about that, it's not my place. It's not yours either."

Chris put his arms up in surrender, taking a sip of his beer. "I won't say a thing. You know me; I wouldn't do that. But, uh…" he hesitated, his voice wavering with uncertainty; "Are you going to tell him about her writing the article?"

"Who?" Logan asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Colin, of course – who else would I mean?"

"Well, no, I don't think I will," Logan said resolutely, "It's not as if Colin goes to Yale – we all know who saw to that – and I'm not planning on being one of her fuck-toys anytime in this millennium, so once the article is out it'll blow over. I see no reason to upset him, I see no reason to even mention her name."

"Your call," Chris said, "But he's going to be more angry if he finds out from someone else that you kept it from him."

He snatched the newspaper back, roughly turning the page and opening it, but the words staring back at him were blurry. "She's so infuriating, that girl. I want to hate her, and trust me – I do. But at the same time I can't seem to figure her out – she plays a lot of dangerous mind-games, and everything you think you know about her turns itself on its axis every five seconds. I know what she did to Colin, and I'll never forget that, but her eyes, her voice, the way she looks at you – it all seems so authentic, genuine… _intoxicating._ "

He paused, looking helpless and confused. "I guess that's why Colin trusted her to begin with, and why eventually it all fell to shit. Well, the same will never happen to me. Girl's a bloody siren, I know it."

Finishing his Red Bull, he squashed the can down to a ring and threw it in the garbage. Walking towards the refrigerator, he took out another one and opened it immediately.

Chris was eerily quiet before he asked, "How many of those did you buy today?"

"Three twelve packs." At his father's incredulous look, he shrugged; "I like to stock up."

"Your grandmother may be right," Chris teased, mirth dancing in his eyes.

"I don't like to call it an addiction," Logan smirked in amusement; "I'd rather refer to it as a healthy, symbiotic relationship. I give it a home; it gives me nourishment and energy. It's a well-established system."

"You're just lucky I don't bribe Tom into refusing you service," Chris quipped lightly.

A cocky smirk twitched on Logan's lips. "I'd like to see you try, Dad. I'm Tom's best customer."

"I'm Tom's best _friend,"_ Chris fired back just as quickly.

Logan chuckled, smiling at his father, "That may be so, but friends aren't the ones that secure his business with cash-flow."

Chris gave a hearty laugh, and before he could reply, a loud, generic jingle filled the space between them and Logan dug his phone out of his messenger bag, holding it to his ear and motioning for his Dad to give him a minute. "What's up, Marty?" … "Really, this early?" … "I didn't think it'd come out for another week or so, most articles take longer than this." … "Right now?" … "Well, yeah, of course I want to see it." … "Mate, I know how important it is, it's my damn website." … "Alright, I'll be there in an hour."

He rose from his chair, slipped his jacket on with ease and apologized to his father. "I'm sorry, Dad – this is really important. Apparently the article came out early, I wasn't expecting it until next week. Marty and the guys really want to hash it out, so I've gotta—"

Chris waved him off with a smile. "Get out of here, kid. Your Dad's got a hot date tonight, anyway. Even your old man gets laid once in a while. Where do you think you got your dazzling charm?"

Logan smirked. "Don't jinx yourself, Dad – this woman may be way out of your league." He snickered, pulled his Dad into a one-armed hug and said, "Nah – you're a Hayden. Even if you're old, nobody's outta your league."

Chris guffawed, as if offended, but his lips pulled into a sincere smile – "Go give 'em hell, kid."

* * *

' _Syntax, the innovative brainstorm by electric duo Logan Hayden and Marty Fell, is only the tip of the new wave known as digital journalism. Unencumbered by doubts, fears and insecurities, these two pioneers have built themselves a platform from which all online publications will be judged henceforth. Embodying a spirit rivaling the world's most esteemed entrepreneurs and a drive mirrored by the most successful businessmen while utilizing top-notch resources, connections and fluid, polished writing, this is not a project that the Yale Daily News can afford to ignore.'_

' _The chief architect behind this project, Logan Hayden, knows exactly the challenges, contention and turbulence his publication will face as it expands, but if anything, this only further ignites the fire and steely determination in his eyes.'_

' _It is clear that only time will tell where this ambitious endeavor will find itself in years to come, but with their magnetic brand of enthusiasm, there is no doubt in my mind that Syntax has been able to pull off what hoards of publications before it have been too timid to attempt—building a platform more accessible, enticing and kindred to the human spirit than we've ever seen before. I can't predict the future, but if you, like me, believe that stark, raw enthusiasm is the most important cornerstone of success, you'll put your mouth and your money into endorsing the future of journalism as it blooms right in front of our eyes.'_

Logan's jaw was hanging loosely open, his eyes wide and stunned. "It's–"

Marty clapped him on the shoulder, broad-grinned and exuberant, "It's a fucking rave, man! A rave, can you honestly believe it?" Oblivious to the white pallor of Logan's face, Marty plowed on, too excited to notice anything but his own enthusiasm; "What Daily News Reporter would write a rave about a competing publication? She's going to get skinned alive by her editor for this, and I almost feel bad." His smile widened. "Actually, hell no I don't feel bad. Do you know what this is going to do for us? Do you have any idea—"

He broke off, finally sensing Logan's panic. "Logan, what's wrong?"

"I, uhm…" he trailed off, biting his lips in confusion. Why on earth would Huntzberger write something like this after the horrible way he'd treated her? He'd been dreading this article for a week, thinking it would be an absolute devastation to his life's work – a complete obliteration of his pride and joy. To be honest, he wouldn't even blame her if she had skinned him alive. He'd done everything to deserve it. For god's sake, he couldn't even be professional enough to shake her hand, despite his feelings. This was a disaster – she _had_ to have an ulterior motive. This must be some underhanded ploy, just to fuck with him. There was no other explanation.

"I've got somewhere I need to be right now," he said, grabbing his bag and running his sweaty, nervous fingers through his damp hair.

"What?" Marty asked incredulously. "What the hell, man? Kelsey finally sent in selections for the new logo design, and Gavin's got a problem with one of our biggest advertisers, and—"

Logan smiled, trying to fight back the burning feeling of utter anxious nausea; "I trust you with all of it, Marty, I really do. This is your baby as much as it is mine. Right now, I really have somewhere to be. Sorry, man."

He bolted out of Marty's dorm as fast as humanly possible, and found himself marching in a direction he'd never gone before – Branford. Only the richest at Yale could secure a place in Branford College, and he'd never even been in the vicinity before, but right now, that steely determination she'd written about in her article was practically shooting lasers at everyone he passed. When he reached the door signaling the occupants of L.H. and P.G., he gave two sharp, concise knocks and waited with his stance as rigid as it had ever been.

"Where the hell do you get off writing all that shit?"

Apparently, he'd caught her very off-guard, because she didn't immediately come back with a sharp retort, but stared at him, stunned. Finally finding her voice, she said pointedly, "If I remember correctly, I painted your magazine in quite a favorable light. I've received a lot of backlash from pissed off people, but never from someone I raved about."

"But why?" He asked heatedly, not dropping the subject.

"Why did I write you a rave when you treated me like a disease? _"_ She asked, eyebrow raised.

His lips twitched into a sardonic smile—"Gee, you sure catch on quick," he mimicked her prior words back at her.

A light, seemingly genuine smile appeared across her face—"Get inside."

"Ooh, changed your tune already?"

She closed the door behind him, trying to bite down the laugh that threatened to burst forth, and rounded on him again. "Alright, what are you blabbering about – and speak in full sentences this time, please."

Logan inhaled slowly, uncertainty clear in every mannerism he displayed. "You took time and consideration to write a rave about my magazine, when you could've easily destroyed it without any real effort. And I gave you _every_ reason to publicly shame it. I berated you, your friends, your family, your lifestyle – every insult I could've possibly thrown at you, I did. I treated you like you were the goddamn filth on my shoes and you _wrote me a rave?_ That doesn't make any sense, Huntzberger, so I'm asking you again, _why?"_

Her flippant response made his fists clench in anger—"You can call me Rory."

"I'll call you whatever I damn well please," he said hotly, still looking for an answer. "Stop evading me. What are you up to?"

Sighing, she sat down on the couch and paused the television he hadn't even realized was playing. "I told you when I interviewed you, I'm an unbiased journalist. Believe whatever you want about my character, but I'm just asking you to believe _that_ much about me as a writer. I don't write biased bullshit to cater to an agenda that's not about giving people the truth. I have a lot of respect for this business, and I write _exactly_ what I see exactly how I see it. I wrote what I saw, and I wrote what I felt. No underhanded ploys or devious plots, it really is that simple."

The raw, gritty truth in her voice came as a shock, but she seemed to be shocking him left and right lately. It was only during this brief pause that he looked at the room more closely—looked at _her,_ more specifically. She was wearing a ripped, ratty old Yale t-shirt and blue sweatpants rolled up to her knees, her hair in a messy, haphazard bun and her face was completely devoid of anything but clear, pale skin. She looked absolutely nothing like Rory Huntzberger, all polished and dolled up twenty-four seven, and it made him even more nauseous to realize that she actually looked really fucking adorable.

 _Adorable? Huntzberger? Do those two words even exist on the same planet?_

It was only once he calmed down and took a deep breath that he noticed the array of food on her coffee table. "What is all this?"

"Oh, uh…" she stammered, and he could've sworn he saw her blush – what the actual fuck? "These are my refreshments for the evening."

"It's a Friday night," he stated plainly.

"Thanks, Hayden, but I'm familiar with the way a weekly calendar works," she quipped with a smirk.

He rolled his eyes. "It's a Friday night – doesn't Rory Huntzberger prowl New Haven for boy-toys to add to her entourage on Friday nights?"

"Only the Friday nights I can't make up excuses for," she muttered low under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Uh—" she seemed to be gathering her usual confidence back, perturbed that this guy was taking her so far out of her element. It felt weird to not be in control of a social interaction, it just wasn't how her world worked. "Why is this any of your business, Hayden?"

"It's not, I was just curious." He glanced over at the T.V. and recognized the screen-shot, a jolt of electricity running through his bones. "The Goonies?" He asked, a shy smile on his lips.

"A classic," she affirmed, smiling back.

"I'm uhm… I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, though what he was apologizing for, he wasn't sure. Was he apologizing for yelling at her; for assuming things about her life; or for treating her like shit for reasons that weren't entirely his own? It was probably all of the above, but she didn't need to know that. "For intruding on your night," he clarified.

"It's alright, I don't mind company," she said. As he began to head for the door, her voice floated across to him, more shy and timid than he'd ever expect from her… "Do you want to stay?"

He turned back, as if he didn't believe his own ears. "What?"

She gestured to the wide array of food around her, smirk still firmly in place, but it was one that made his heart leap. It wasn't sarcastic, sharp or cutting. It was… kind of sweet. "I have enough pizza, Chinese and junk food to feed a village, and you love this movie. It would be awfully rude of me not to offer."

"How do you know I love this movie?" He asked tentatively.

"Oh, please," she waved him off in amusement. "If you want to mask your emotions a little better, you'd better hide those eyes, 'cause they express your every thought and then some."

Extremely torn, he was looking from her mesmerizing blue eyes back to the door as if he wanted to run – but, surprisingly, he found that he really didn't. He was tired of running from her, he just wanted to sit down and enjoy himself. And there was no better way to enjoy oneself than eating Chinese food and watching the Goonies – even if it was with Rory Huntzberger.

He hesitantly sat down and picked up a carton of Chinese food, scooping some of it into his mouth, and he looked at her, a beaming smile on her face that seemed almost painfully authentic. The movie played on in the background quietly as they stole hidden glances at each other every few minutes.

"Can I ask you a question?" He said suddenly, finding his mouth moving before he had given it permission.

"I don't guarantee I'll answer, but sure," she joked lightly.

"Why do you write under a penname? You clearly love it, and you're a Huntzberger. Between your talent and your last name, you could be the Editor of any major newspaper in the country before you turned twenty-five."

A surprised expression formed quickly followed by a sort of resigned grimace—"I've written under a penname my entire life. I've never written a damn thing as Rory Huntzberger, and that's the way it'll stay." She sucked in a breath, seeming to wonder if she should continue. "The thing is, I don't want to work at a major daily, I want to be a foreign correspondent. I don't want the Huntzberger Media Empire, not a single damn part of it. Why do you think I only write about foreign affairs? I want to report the truth about the world, the stories from the vantage point of the people that are actually suffering through them, not from the point of an elitist American blue-blood just traipsing around the world on holiday…"

Logan was looking at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"I want to be more than that," she declared emphatically, biting into a slice of pizza, "And I can't do that under my father's thumb. I can't write anything my father knows about. He can't think I actually give a shit or he'd never let me out of the grips of my family's legacy, so I – Rory Huntzberger – don't write anything at all."

"That's–" Logan started, words failing him.

"Way too heavy to be coming out of Rory Huntzberger's mouth?" She asked with a sarcastic smile.

"Well, yeah," he laughed along with her.

"Hmm," she pondered with a inquisitive expression on her face before she shook her head and turned back to the movie; "Pass me an eggroll, Hayden."

* * *

Mhm, damn… her hair smelled so good. Mostly vanilla, with just a hint of spice he couldn't attribute to anything in particular. It was so soft too, smooth and enticing, and he found it a perfectly acceptable choice to stay in bed with this girl all day, classes and the magazine be damned. Who did he go home with last night anyway? Everything was a little fuzzy, even his eyesight.

"Hayden?" A soft voice whispered, and he stirred a little further out of his delirium. Oh, apparently Huntzberger woke up.

Wait… _Huntzberger?!_

"Holy fuck," he shouted, ripping himself violently from his position with his back lying flat against Rory Huntzberger's couch with the aforementioned girl's head buried into the crook of his neck.

"Woah, Logan—slow down," she said hurriedly, scared by his fierce reaction.

"I can't—" he was hyperventilating, he was sure of it. "I can't believe this."

"Relax," she soothed him, "We didn't sleep together. We just fell asleep, it's no big deal. Shit happens. My roommate didn't even see us, she's gone for the whole weekend. No harm done."

"No harm done?" He repeated, aghast in horror. No, he mentally protested, _a lot_ of harm done. Mountains upon mountains of harm done. "I can't… not with _you,"_ he spat coldly.

Her eyes burned so fiercely he thought a crater was going to spread across his chest until there was nothing left of him but a few scraps of ash. "Okay, that is _enough!_ I realize you hate me for some strange reason, and I demand to know why. For god's sake, I realize I'm not the nicest person ever nor do I have a sparkling reputation, but you _hate_ me – you don't even _know_ me."

He laughed darkly – "Oh, I know you. I know exactly who you are."

"What the hell does that mean?" She asked angrily, her blue eyes shining with indignation and a whole lot of hurt that he was choosing to ignore.

He shook his head vehemently. "I have to get out of here," he said resolutely and dashed out her door so quickly he left his book-bag lying forgotten in her room. By the time he got across the quad and back to his own dorm, he was out of breath, panicked and wide-eyed. The jovial figure smiling from his armchair stood up and pulled him into a hug he wasn't prepared for. The breath was nearly knocked out of him as he tried to wrap his brain around this deadly, deadly situation. "Colin? What the hell are you doing here, man?"

Colin's wide, joyful grin usually made Logan satisfied that his best friend was happy, but now, with the events of last night, it just made him want to vomit. "Dad's mistress, the maid, you remember me telling you all about that, right? Well, the old bat died last week, and Mom and I got a hell of a lot of cash. I'm transferring to Yale, mate. No more UNH, effective immediately."

Oh, dear god. "I need to sit down."

"Are you okay?" Colin asked skeptically. "You look like you're about to faint, man."

"I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it." His voice was barely functioning, cracking on every syllable he let out. "I uh – I spent the night with a girl last night."

Colin stared blankly, a sly smile forming on his lips. "Is that supposed to be a big revelation or something, man, 'cause I hate to tell you, but I can tell. Your clothes are all mussed up, and you smell like girl's shampoo."

"Not just any girl," he muttered darkly. "Look, before I say this, just know that I didn't mean to betray you. I really didn't. I didn't seek her out, she's writing an article about 'Syntax' and I was only there to yell at her but she—she twisted it all around. This girl is a goddamn mythical creature or something, honestly—a spider, and the whole world is her web, just entangling people in it and poisoning them with her sweet candy venom until they don't even know they're worm food until she's bitten you."

Colin feared for his best friend's sanity at this point. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Logan finally stopped his frantic rant, looked his best friend in the eye and said, scared and ashamed, "Colin, I fell asleep watching movies with Rory Huntzberger last night."

Colin's face dropped immediately, and Logan tried to say more, but a barrage of buried memories drowned out any sound from Colin's surroundings—

" _Ror, this is serious," he told the fifteen year old girl sitting on the headboard of his bed, inspecting him with a sad, sympathetic smile. "My Dad could go to jail, we could lose everything we've ever had."_

" _Colin, c'mon… I know how serious this is. I would never do anything that would jeopardize your life, I love you."_

 _Taking a deep breath, Colin grabbed Rory's arm and pulled her down to the bed as she placed her head on his shoulder. "My Dad's not a bad man, Rory. He may not love my mother, and he may cheat around a lot, but he loves me and_ _ **this…**_ _he did what was right. I know bribing witnesses is a federal crime, but they were—"_

" _They were covering up for a murderer, and this is the only way to put the bastard away for good. Colin,_ _ **I know.**_ _Don't underestimate me; I know what's going on. You of all people should know I'm not as selfish or as air-headed as I pretend to be. I'm never going to betray you, Colin—god, that'd be like betraying Honor, or…" her voice broke a little on this last assertion, "Or my Mom. I'd never do it."_

" _I know, Ror. I know."_

 _She tilted her head up to look at him, confused. "Then why are you so worried?"_

" _I—" he hesitated, "Your family stands to gain a lot if my father goes to jail, Rory, I know you know that."_

 _She shot straight up and angrily stood off the bed. "Are you serious? How could you think that low of me?"_

" _I don't…"_

" _Sure seems like you do," she snapped back._

 _His voice was soft, frightened. "I'm sorry, I just… Rory, this could ruin our lives. I do trust you, you know that—I'm just so scared."_

 _Softening immediately, she wrapped her arms around his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek—"Colin, it's going to be fine. I wouldn't betray you for anyone, I promise. I'll take care of my father, leave that to me. I swear to you, on my life, on my honor, on my mother's memory, your father is not going_ _ **anywhere.**_ _"_

"Colin?" Logan asked again, tentative, confused and afraid he'd broken a valuable friendship for one night of manufactured peace. "Colin, please… tell me you don't hate me."

 _There were crowds outside of his home, gathering like locusts swarming, preparing for attack. Bright, flashing police lights were everywhere, and he rushed outside frantically, still in his pajamas, frightened so much he was stunned he wasn't tripping over his feet. "Stop! Stop it, what are you doing?!"_

 _His father's voice was so sore he could've sworn that the man had been crying. His father_ _ **never**_ _cried. "Go back inside, Colin. Be with your mother. It's over, it's just… over."_

" _How? How is it just over? How did this happen?"_

 _A dark, booming voice caused his attention to divert to his left. Mitchum Huntzberger stood, tall and imposing, and with a laugh, declared, "You should be more careful about the people you trust, son. My daughter is a Huntzberger, what did you honestly expect? Selfless integrity? Please, give me a break."_

 _Colin's voice shook with emotion. "No, she wouldn't do that…"_

 _Mitchum's smile was ominous. "She caught the whole thing on tape – everything you said. Quite ingenious, really."_

 _The unmistakable flick of a tape recorder – the same purple one emblazoned with 70s sitcom character stickers that Rory used to take notes in class – played ominously over all the noises and sounds of chaos. All Colin could hear was Rory's voice._

—" _ **Colin, it's going to be fine. I wouldn't betray you for anyone, I promise. I'll take care of my father, leave that to me. I swear to you, on my life, on my honor, on my mother's memory, your father is not going anywhere."**_ _—_

 _His legs gave way now, and he fell to the concrete. "No. No. Please, don't…" The officer pushed him away, stuffed his father down into the cop car and left a fifteen-year-old boy on his knees, crying, without a hope in the world of understanding the magnitude of what had just happened._

Colin's mouth turned in a slight smile, and he asked, "You said something about her writing a piece for the Daily News about 'Syntax'."

"Uh, yes…" Logan answered slowly, startled that this was his first question.

"Under a penname, I gather?" Colin asked, amused.

At this point, he didn't care if he broke her confidentiality agreement. Let her lawyers make a meal out of him. If his best friend asked a question, he was going to give him the damn truth. "Yep. Renée Holloway."

Colin chuckled, "Another R.H. I always told her that was risky, but she said she liked living on the edge. What a damn liar, she couldn't live on the edge if her house was situated on the side of a cliff." His voice was soft, his smile wistful, and Logan stared at him incredulously. "She's a planner, through and through, wouldn't know how to live for the moment if her life depended on it. I always loved that about her—and those damn pro/con lists, it was fucking adorable."

 _Adorable._ Logan swallowed back the guilt and bile in the back of his throat.

"Why don't you hate her?"

Colin grimaced harshly. "Oh, I hate her," he said assuredly, "She ruined my life, with no regret for anyone. I don't hate _anyone,_ but her… yeah, I hate _her_. But…" he sighed, unsure of how to articulate what he was feeling. "She was my first, from the playpen. My first friend, my first kiss, first crush, first time… it doesn't matter how badly it ends, you never forget how that person made you feel. You never forget how important they were to you."

The pregnant pause was thick and tangible in the space between them.

"Do you hate _me_?"

Colin looked up, his expression confused. "Hell no, why would I hate you? Man, I'd be the world's biggest hypocrite if I got mad at you for falling for Rory Huntzberger's mind-games." He paused, before adding, "Let's not harp on it."

After a long sigh, Colin put on his best attempt at a smile and asked, "You want to come back to see my room? Help me set up my record player?"

Logan looked so relieved he actually slumped down a little in his seat. "Yeah, man… of course."

* * *

 **Notes:** Was anyone expecting that revelation at the end? :D

 **Important Note:** I want to make this very clear: This is not a triangle. The only Cory in this entire story is platonic, save for maybe some flashbacks if I feel like it. Rory and Colin's past romance is exactly that-in the _past._ This storyline of Colin & Rory serves more as a character development tool for Rory and as an agent to help develop Rory and Logan's tricky, complicated burgeoning relationship.

I really hope you enjoyed, 'cause man, it's been a long time since I've had this much fun writing a story. :D

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review if you enjoyed, have comments, suggestions or constructive criticism. :)


	3. III -- Rory

**Notes:** Hello, my friends. First off, I'm so sorry this took a couple months to get out. I actually ended up losing this entire piece when my laptop died, and I had to wait a month to get another laptop, and then I had to write the whole thing over. Which, in the long run, is probably a good thing, because I think the second go turned out better than the first one.

I really wanted to get this out on Christmas for you guys as a present from me to you, but today was the best I could do. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone (a day late)! I love you guys, and you're all very supportive of this story and I want you to know that I'm still extremely in love with, enthusiastic about and devoted to the Adventures of Rory Huntzberger and Logan Hayden.

 **Smaller Note:** The beginning flashback may be confusing for some of you. Let me just say this, so perhaps you'll understand a bit better: Rory Huntzberger has no association with the Gilmore last name, except for having heard it in passing. She has no idea that the name has anything to do with her. Here's a small hint about why that is: Just because Lorelai is ten years older than she is in canon, doesn't mean Richard and Emily's ages have changed at all. Think about that a little before you head into the flashback. ;)

All in all, I'm so glad to be back and I hope you guys are happy to have me back. Enjoy. :)

* * *

III. Rory

* * *

 _December 24_ _th_ _, 1989_

The Avon Golf club was not Lorelai's ideal location for a Christmas Eve party hot-spot, that was for sure, but it was far away from Mitchum, and given the tumultuous nature of their relationship as of late, the stuffy, posh establishment felt like a sharp breath of relief. Besides, the view underneath the admittedly tacky fake tinsel trees was beyond heartwarming. Her two little girls—little devils, rather—were huddled under expensive ornaments and silver branches, their heads bent together, whispering conspiratorially. Honor's blonde hair was braided down her back in shimmering gold, smile mischievous and hazel eyes sparkling, with Rory's baby blue eyes wide and childlike, her dark hair splayed over her shoulders like a curtain. Gossipy, fake women and their ostentatious Christmas decorations aside, spending Christmas Eve with the three most important women in her life was nothing to scoff at, wherever the locale. A lot of people in the world didn't have that good fortune. When a hand suddenly rested itself on her shoulder, she turned around quickly, only to sigh in relief at the sight of her mother.

"Geez, Mom—wear a bell, will you? I almost smacked you across the face in fear you were trying to rob me," she said, a wicked smile on her lips as her mother frowned in return.

"Charming, Lorelai," she scolded half-heartedly.

Lorelai didn't answer immediately, her attention still on the two little girls under the tinsel tree, smiling and laughing without a care in the word, an utter obliteration of any kind of restraint that their father may have instilled in them.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Her mother's voice seemed a thousand miles away.

A genuine smile light on her lips, for once, no joke or sarcastic retort came to mind. "Absolutely."

"You did a very good job with them, Lorelai," Emily said softly, her attention turning away from her granddaughters. "I mean it—despite everything…"

"Despite my _husband_ , you mean," her daughter snorted, uncouth but completely unconcerned.

Emily wrinkled her nose but did not take the bait. "Despite _everything;_ despite your sham of a marriage, my situation, your environment… and yes, your husband too." She paused, taking in her daughter's serious expression. "There are many little girls in this environment who aren't as lucky as they are—who didn't have a role model like you."

Lorelai hesitated, her voice small but assertive, "Mom…"

"For god's sake, Lorelai, get over your goddamn pride and take a compliment for its face value, will you?" When Lorelai had nothing to say to that, Emily smiled and continued; "You gave up your dreams, your freedom, everything you could've had to save my life. I never asked you to do that, I never _expected_ you to do that. I know how you've always felt about this life, and I never wanted—"

Lorelai sighed in resignation that this conversation was not able to be avoided—"I know we bicker a lot, Mom, but you underestimate my loyalty to you. That was always my first concern, and I think you know that."

"I do," Emily confirmed; "What I'm _trying_ to do is to thank you; I don't say it enough, Lorelai, but you're the reason I'm still alive, and I don't take that for granted. You've taken a horrible situation you endured because of me and made something beautiful come from it. Those girls are beautiful people _because of you._ You've persevered and set a good example in a horrible world, and that's no small feat."

Lorelai's bright, keen blue eyes were glistening a little when she tried to speak. "Mom, we—"

"Emily!" A boisterous, commanding voice floated across the room, and both women looked up to see Pennilyn Gilmore striding towards them, arms linked with a small boy, his light green eyes intelligent and inquisitive, his dark hair a muss of messy curls. "Emily Hessington? My goodness," she put a hand to her chest, "It's been so long since we've seen you. And your daughter, of course." She nodded politely at Lorelai. "I swear the last time I saw either of you was at Lorelai's college graduation."

Emily's smile was forced, her tone cold. "Yes, I believe that is the last time we saw each other."

"How have you two been?" The blonde woman asked, ruffling the young boy's hair. "This is my youngest, Aston. He's quite a handful; he'll run off if I don't keep a good hold on him."

"I'm the runt of the litter, did'ya know?" The boy exclaimed exuberantly.

"Aston Terrence Gilmore," she scolded forcefully, "Where did you learn that horrible phrase?"

"Charlie taught it to me, Mom," the boy muttered sheepishly.

"Boys," she said, and shook her head. "All boys, I've had," she said to Emily and Lorelai now, her voice fond; "They're a challenge, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Neither would I," Lorelai said suddenly, her voice bordering on belligerence. Her mother sent her a warning glare, but Lorelai ignored it. "Both of mine are girls, you know. They're tricky little things, they could give your boys a run for their money, I'd bet."

Lorelai's smile was sharp as a blade, a poisonous invitation that Pennilyn seemed very eager to take. "Well, let's see, shall we? They're here, aren't they? My husband and another of my sons, Weston, are around here somewhere. I'm sure they'd get along smashingly. Your youngest is around Aston's age, isn't she?"

"Rory's seven, yes," Lorelai said, her contempt only thinly veiled. "Rory!" She raised her voice slightly so her daughter could hear her—"Come over here for a second, can you?"

Her younger daughter, her innocent little girl with the bright, childlike eyes and enthusiastic spirit locked eyes with her tentatively. Lorelai nodded with a smile, encouraging her that it was was okay to feel a little nervous. Rory was the sweetest little girl, but a little socially anxious sometimes.

Truthfully, while Lorelai adored Honor for more reasons than she could count, her special bond was reserved for her younger daughter. She and Rory were especially close, mostly because she was the one person Rory ever trusted enough to let her guard down with. Her daughter was very shy, and didn't necessarily like a lot of people, but when she and Lorelai were alone together, Rory was like a whole different kid. Instead of shy and timid, she became excited, exuberant and very outgoing—sometimes, it was hard to handle the raw enthusiasm Rory had when she was comfortable with someone.

It helped that _this_ was the one day Rory was especially outgoing with _everyone._ There was nothing that Rory loved more than the holidays, which, of course, she shared with her mother.

Both of her girls were up and walking towards them now—because of course, Honor would not stand for being left out—but Emily cut in smoothly before either girl could reach the group.

"Perhaps another time, Pennilyn; we were just getting ready to leave, see. My daughter's husband should be back home by now, and, _of course,_ the girls want to see their father before they tuck in for the night. It was lovely seeing you, of course. Let's arrange something soon," Emily said, almost dismissively.

If Pennilyn had picked up on it, she didn't show it. "Of course, I'll call you sometime next month. It was lovely to see you again, Lorelai. Come along, Aston," she called her son as he lagged behind.

Aston took Lorelai by surprise as he took her hand, kissed the back of it, and said, "Nice to meet you, Miss," with a darling little crooked smile. Despite his harpy of a mother, she gave him a genuine little smile back.

Once they were gone, she rounded on her mother, a growl under her beath—"I'm very capable of handling the Wicked Witch of the West myself, y'know."

Emily's voice was a low, terse warning. "Lorelai, don't do this with me right now—"

Lorelai's voice was almost as soft as a whisper so her approaching daughters were out of earshot, and, with a scoff, she said, "Well, everything's okay now that they're gone, _isn't it?_ Who gives a shit about what _I_ can handle or what your granddaughters want, everything's just peachy as long as no one ever knows your dirty little secret."

"As long as no one knows—even the man himself, for god's sake—that your entire family are just the bastard offspring of international insurance mogul Richard Gilmore, _right?"_

When Emily didn't respond, her face pale and impassive, her lips pursed in a thin line, Lorelai raised her voice to her daughters, once again seemingly carefree and jovial, as though no harsh words had been exchanged between she and her mother; "C'mon girls, we're going to head to the park before we go home and wait for Santa. Say your goodbyes to your grandmother, alright?"

* * *

December 4th, 2003

Rory Huntzberger hated the holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah and whatever else was celebrated in these two months of complete and utter goddamn torture. She was already in a bad mood this morning due to those idiotic Whiffenpoof bastards singing Christmas carols in front of the coffee cart. This time of year never failed to dampen her spirits, but jolly jingles getting in the way of her caffeine fix was just the icing on the cake. Then, of course, because her day wasn't sour enough already, she had to come to her 9 a.m. Ethics class to find out they were discussing _this._

Eyes narrowed rigidly in contempt, fists balled up at her sides and her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, she did not concede even slightly to this girl's nonsensical vitriol disguised as a coherent argument. This girl didn't give a flying fuck about the subject, she just wanted to rile up the notoriously apathetic Ice-Queen Huntzberger—and she was succeeding.

"No one has the right to play God like that, not even doctors," Rory spat harshly, her voice sharp with indignation; "Leaving the fate of a human being in the hands of one solitary person's uneducated and _selfish_ decision is playing God, and it's ridiculous to boot. Why should one ignorant person get to decide whether to pull the plug or not? It's not a goddamn phone cord, it's a person's life support—"

"But that's the point!" The girl argued back, her face a deep berry hue, "It's not a person anymore, they're _brain dead._ What part of brain dead don't you comprehend, Huntzberger, the 'brain' or the 'dead'? _Dead,_ as in no longer alive. It's science, simple as that."

She had to take a deep, slow breath before her nails dug so far into her skin they'd peel off. Malice and passion in her voice, she growled, low and terse, "Since when has science outweighed decency and common morality?"

The girl smirked victoriously, knowing her comments had stung deep. Everyone in the room was watching with rapt interest—even the professor had yet to chime in to interrupt this heated debate. Rory hadn't spoken one word in this class since it began and they were two weeks away from the end of the semester. If she actually _had_ any opinions, no one heard them, because she was as apathetic as they come. But now, _this—_ it wasn't clear whether it was the girl she was arguing with or the subject itself that had her so riled up, but riled up she was. Smirk still etched into her lips, the girl said snidely, "I know your family raised you with antiquated views, Huntzberger, but in the century everyone _else_ has moved onto, science outweighs emotional plights that interfere with common knowledge."

"Alright, _enough_ Ms. Baker. Personal insults have no place in rational discussion—" the professor hurriedly interjected, but Rory wasn't anywhere near done.

"What about the ramifications of the decision, hmm? You know the decision to take away a brain dead patient's life support doesn't _just_ affect the person who's making the decision." Rory swallowed back a choke of emotion in the back of her throat and plowed on, "These people have families, friends… people who have _opinions_ and feelings that may differ from those of the one who's appointed to make the decision. Should we take _them_ into consideration, then, or are they too just as useless as the brain dead _corpse?"_ Rory spat in derision.

"The people are _suffering,_ they're better off—"

"Better off dead, really?" Rory asked rhetorically, her face flushed. "I forgot I was talking to someone who's actually _been_ brain dead before, my apologies. Tell me, Baker, when you were brain dead and suffering, did _you_ want someone to pull the plug?"

"Well, they aren't around to make that decision, are they? _Someone_ has to." Baker raised a condescending eyebrow. "You can't seriously disagree with _that_ , can you?"

"Mr. Gilmore," the professor quickly interjected, thankful for another voice in the discussion. Before either girl could continue, he nodded at the boy, "You have a thought to share?"

Rory turned to assess the new voice—he was a tall, well-built guy with striking green eyes, artfully messy brown hair and a crooked smile. _Aston Gilmore._ She'd heard his name in conversation before, but she'd never actually met him. If he had been a focal point of any conversation in this class before, she hadn't noticed.

Aston shot a supportive, secretive smile her way and said, "Both sides of the argument have valid points. _Someone_ has to make a decision, that's obvious, but the issue isn't the decision itself, it's who's authorized to make it. Rory's right, one person shouldn't have that kind of power over a life, brain dead or not. It isn't natural, and it certainly isn't ethical. Sure, science says they're dead, but how can we trust that? There have been several instances where doctors have deduced from science that someone is brain dead and they wake up despite that. We're putting too much power into the individual—the doctor is literally God in this situation, and the appointed person is basically the anointed one. There are more people who make up that person's life than a doctor and their closest relative—it's too much power for one person."

Rory stared, a mixture of suspicion and gratitude etched in the curve of her mouth.

The Baker girl scrambled to argue back, but the professor put his hand up, "Save that thought for next class, Miss Baker, because we have to adjourn. Thank you everyone for your input, and do keep up on your readings. It makes me look good to the board, and if I look good to the board, you do better in my gradebook," he joked with a sly smile.

While everyone was collecting their books, Rory was steadily collecting her thoughts and moderating her labored, heavy breathing. She hadn't felt this much emotion in—had she _ever_ felt this much emotion? Negative as it may be, there was something intrinsically satisfying about the sensation of _feeling._ Yes, Baker had pissed Rory off with her nonchalant and completely uninformed view of an important topic, but all the same, Mr. Jensen's sensitive topic choice and Baker's blatant ignorance had given her something even her closest kin had failed to give her— _an opinion._ The insatiable, burning desire to not only _have_ emotions, but to share them. It was certainly an unorthodox reason to feel pleased, but Rory Huntzberger was nothing if not complicated.

Perhaps she should send Baker a fruit basket, she considered with a wry smile. The yoga enthusiast, health conscious Whole Foods shopping hipster bitch was just the kind of person who would prefer fruit to a good ole' slice of pie. What kind of person didn't like pie?

It was her light, humorous ruminations on emotions and pie that let her take Aston Gilmore's greeting with a sense of grace and diplomacy she hadn't felt just a few minutes ago.

"Aston Gilmore," he introduced with a suave smile, his light brown hair falling handsomely in his eyes. His lips curved in amusement as he said, "That was a quite a show you and Baker put on. I don't think anyone would've protested a charge for admission."

She raised her eyebrows, uncertain in how she felt about her new acquaintance. On the one hand, he seemed far too smooth and slick for her liking, but on the other hand, his smile was incredibly disarming and she felt… something. A kind of natural, primal comfort level with him that she couldn't articulate even in her own head.

"Rory Huntzberger," she said back in greeting, rewarding his kindness with a weak, uncertain smile. "Baker just likes to argue." When Aston raised his brow in skepticism, she clarified, "Just because I don't participate doesn't mean I don't listen," she teased; "If she thought she could get away with fighting Jensen on his tenure position, she would."

Aston laughed, a pleasant, warm tenor that instantly brought down her wrought-iron defenses. "All the same, you made her look like a fool."

"No," Rory dismissed easily; "I think that was you." She hesitated, her normally icy heart's unusually pleasant reaction to this guy a little unnerving on several levels. "Thanks for the save, by the way."

"I didn't jump in because I thought you needed the help."

Rory's blue eyes sparkled with mirth. "I wasn't accusing you of anything."

"Then you're welcome," he said with an endearing, crooked smile. His bottle-green eyes held a lot of hesitance as she gathered her books and made to the door, and she paused a step, waiting for him to speak. "Do you want to go out for coffee this weekend?" The immediate reaction of panic on Rory's face made him rush to clarify, "Platonic coffee."

"Platonic coffee?" She mimicked back at him, a little good-natured jest in her tone.

"Absolutely." As a mocking grin was still twitching on Rory's lips, he said, "Oh c'mon, it could be a thing."

"Not in my world," she said, a little despondently—but if he had noticed, he didn't comment. "I've never had platonic coffee with a guy before. I don't know if I've ever had platonic _anything_ with a guy before. Most guys only want one thing from me, and it isn't friendship."

Aston's smile diminished somewhat at her blasé dismissal of the way most guys treated her. "Well, I happen to be an expert on platonic coffee dates, so I'll just have to teach you. You seem like you could be a quick study."

She couldn't really help the now genuine tugging of a smile at her lips. "Then it's a deal. You teach me the etiquette of friendly coffee dates, and I'll teach you the fine art of distinguishing the outstanding coffee from the mediocre stand-ins." She reached down to her notepad, tore off a corner of one the pages and wrote her phone number on it. "I'm something of a coffee god," she said with a sly smile.

"I look forward to being educated by a legend, then. Saturday sound good?"

"Perfect," she answered, and she was halfway out the door when he called back to her.

His smile was different now, more concerned and sympathetic than playful. "Oh, and Rory?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry," he said softly, "For whatever it was that happened to you that made the topic of sustaining life support so sensitive."

It felt like all the air had been knocked out of her lungs. She couldn't see straight, little edges of blurriness crept up in her vision. Her voice rang out, wavering with uncertainty and unwelcome emotion when she challenged, "What makes you think something happened?"

He sighed, gathered up his own books, and there was so much maddening empathy in his striking green eyes that she wanted to gouge them in retaliation of this horrible subject. "In my experience," he said empathetically, "No one reacts with that much vigor unless it's personal."

With nothing but another warm, crooked smile, he walked out, her watery blue eyes staring vacantly at the place he'd just been.

* * *

Still reeling from the odd encounter she'd had with Aston Gilmore, Rory wanted nothing more than to curl up in her comfy sweatpants, her vintage wool blanket and watch hours of 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?'. She was fairly certain Paris was at Doyle's, and a nice, empty dorm sounded perfect right about now. She turned her key in the lock, twisted and opened it only to find three girls sitting on her extravagant—(read: obnoxiously ostentatious)—furniture, chattering a mile a minute. Well, two of them were; the third girl looked decidedly nervous. What the hell were they doing in her dorm?

"Rory, about time you got here—" Rose exclaimed in annoyance, "We've been waiting for you for hours. Where have you been?"

Somehow, every time Rose or Juliet spoke to her, the pitch of their voices gave her a headache. Maybe that's why she was such a bitch all the time. "Uh… classes?" She asked rhetorically, with a heavy dose of sarcasm and derision.

"Oh," Juliet giggled; "I forgot you actually _go_ to those."

Rory bit back a response, knowing whatever she said was just going to cause an argument, and she was in no mood for that. Instead, she leveled her gaze at Stephanie Vanderbilt, who, until now, was one of the only members of Yale's elite, pretentious bratpack that she didn't despise. "That key was for emergencies only, Steph," she said tersely.

The blonde had the decency to look a little sheepish, her eyes still staring at her shoes. That wasn't new; everyone was intimidated by her, even people she called 'friends', and it was a strange reality she had yet to become comfortable with. Steph looked up and stole a disgusted look at Rose's wicked smile and then back at Rory, her eyebrow raised. Rory sighed, knowing exactly what that meant. Rose was the most headstrong person in existence—if she wanted something, she'd badger and bargain and manipulate until she got it.

"It _is_ an emergency, Ror," Juliet said in a hushed, secretive tone, as though whatever had concerned them so much was of utmost importance. Rory had to admit—she was intrigued. Rose and Juliet never really took anything seriously except men and their reputations, and she couldn't seem to connect how that could be involved here. "Lawrence Kemp and Daniel Cruszhel saw some freshman kid they knew as Logan Hayden running out of your dorm at 8 in the morning a couple weeks ago. We would've intervened earlier, but everyone was keeping it quiet from us. I only overheard 'cause Karen Dietz was broadcasting it all around campus this morning. You know she's always hated you."

 _Yeah,_ Rory thought bitterly. _Who hasn't?_ "I don't see the problem here," she said truthfully. "I didn't sleep with Logan, if that's what you guys are worried about. We're… uh, well…" she broke off, wondering to herself exactly what she and Logan were. They weren't friends, he'd made that perfectly clear, but some inexplicable emotion deep inside her hesitated to claim that they were _nothing._ She finally settled on the truth—"We were watching a movie."

"You were… watching a movie?" Rose asked, eyebrows raised.

"Are you deaf?" Rory asked scathingly; "Yes, we were watching a movie. A motion picture. A silver screen production."

"With a guy? _You_ watched a movie with a freshman _geek_ and he didn't try to make a move on you?" Juliet asked, just as shocked.

Rory sighed, rubbing her temples in exasperation. "He's not like that," she defended immediately, out of subconscious instinct. Both their eyebrows raised even higher. "Look, what I do with my time has never been and will never be dictated by you. So I watched a movie with a guy, what's the big crisis?"

The patronizing look on Rose's face made Rory's hands twitch with want to smack it right off. "It's not the movie that's the problem, Rory—it's the guy." She took a deep breath, looked around as if someone unsavory was listening in, and whispered, "He's not like us, Ror. He's not from our world, he doesn't come from money. He doesn't understand how we operate."

"I'll say," Rory laughed bitterly. Truth was, despite his apparent hatred of her, she still preferred Logan's company over these two. Paris was right, what was the point of further entertaining this ridiculous charade of a friendship? She hated these people—all of them.

"Then what are you doing with him in the first place?" Juliet asked, confusion written all over her face. "You're not fucking him, apparently—not that we thought you would be—and we know you and your anal perfectionism better than to think you'd trust anyone else to do your schoolwork." Her tone was amused now, her smile sharp with cruelty; "Have you really run out of real men to play with? Is this like a 'How to Lose a Geek in Ten Days' kind of thing?" She paused a minute, a devilish, callous smirk on her lips—"That's actually kind of hilarious."

She had no idea why her blood boiled at Juliet's insinuation, but she couldn't stop the words from flowing straight out of her mouth, fluid and passionate—"He's not a geek, Juliet, he's a _writer._ And a damn good one. He and Marty Fell created their own fucking website, and he's actually _made_ something of himself. _You_ sure as hell can't say the same thing, can you?"

 _But neither can you,_ her subconscious pointed out scathingly. _How can you condemn these girls as airheads when you've done just as much of significance in your life as they have?_

The question burned in the back of her mind, swirling incessantly, causing her cheeks to flame pink under the intensity of emotions she didn't even know she was capable of. Goddamnit, this was crazy; she had been more publicly passionate and emotional in the last six hours than she had been in the last six _years_. What was wrong with her today?

Everyone's jaws dropped—even Stephanie's, who had been uncharacteristically quiet up to this point. Apathy was Rory Huntzberger's trademark—none of them had ever heard her care about someone enough to talk at length about them, let alone _defend_ them. Rose found her voice first to accuse, "What the hell is wrong with you? When you finally decide to care about something other than yourself, it's the reputation of some freshman nobody and his loser boyfriend? Who the hell is Marty Fell anyway?"

Rory was so entrenched in these new, confounding emotions that she didn't even notice the sudden crease of horror in Stephanie's brow and the flinch she exhibited at Marty's name. She took a deep breath and took a stand for something—for _anything_ —for the second time today. It was actually becoming quite addicting, this 'having opinions and acting on them' thing. "Look, I'm done with this. I'm done with _you_. You're vapid, obnoxious and petty—both of you. You don't give a shit about actual hard work, you just skate by on money and status that you didn't even earn."

Rose laughed—high, tight and cruel like a hyena. "That's rich, coming from you. You haven't worked a day in your life—you haven't _cared_ a day in your life, about anything. You say we have messed up priorities? Well, you don't have _any."_

She hadn't felt this empowered since she had been with Col— _no,_ she scolded herself vehemently. Not going there. That was the past—there was no way to fix that now. God knows she'd tried everything in her power to fix it in the beginning. The only thing she could do now was focus on the future. "Well, all that is about to change," she spat harshly. "And you can mark my words on that. Go tell Karen Dietz and let her tell the whole fucking school for all I care—hell, I _want_ you to. I want everyone to know that I'm no longer associating myself with you."

Juliet's voice was a offended growl. "You're going to regret this, Huntzberger. We're the only ones who ever put up with you—everyone else _hates_ you. You'll be a social pariah without us."

Rory smiled, all saccharine sweetness. "Then it's all uphill from here." At their shocked faces, she laughed, high and condescending. "Excuse me, ladies—I have somewhere to be. If you're still in my dorm when I get back, I'm calling security."

Before she turned on her heel to leave, she stopped in front of Steph, holding out her hand expectantly. The other girl handed over the key, her eyes boring straight into Rory's, an apology already embedded in their deep brown depths. "Ror, I'm really sorry—look, they…"

"Save it," Rory interrupted curtly, pushing past Stephanie and walking out the door without a single look backwards.

She allowed herself to feel almost giddy at what had just transpired—and _now_ , she finally had a plan. Her subconscious was right—she'd never made anything of herself. She'd never done anything for someone else. Well, she knew just what to do to change that.

* * *

When Logan opened the door, he was expecting take-out from his favorite pizza place, but his face schooled into a bemused expression when Rory Huntzberger appeared on the other side of it. Truth was, he'd been thinking about her nonstop since he ran from her dorm room two weeks ago. Following the explanation to Colin, neither of them had dared broach the subject since, but that didn't mean Logan had forgotten about it. As he let the situation sink in around him, he felt horrible. Whatever had happened between Colin and Huntzberger, it was between _them,_ and despite the pain and heartbreak she had caused his best friend (and all the pain she had indirectly caused _him_ because of cleaning up after Colin's messes all those years), he had resolved to stop hating her for reasons that weren't his own. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't his right.

She didn't immediately speak, and although her stance appeared determined and purposeful, he could see the little cracks in her exterior—the slight slump of her shoulders and the dulled gleam of her usually fantastic blue eyes. Something had happened, and she looked almost defeated at whatever it was.

He'd known Rory Huntzberger to be a lot of things—many of them conflicting—but defeated was never one of them.

"I'm not here because I wanted to make up or anything," she said finally, the set of her jaw pugnacious and resolute, "I don't want to be friends. I'm not going to force you int—"

"I know," he said, an uncertain, hesitant smile on his face, "I read the note you left when you dropped off my bookbag. It was very nice—succinct and to the point." His smile was teasing, mirth dancing in his eyes; "Have you ever thought of being a writer?"

"Hilarious," she deadpanned, although her bright, brilliant smile put a little bit of light back into her dead eyes.

"So, uh…" he wasn't sure how to approach their dynamic anymore. Now that he resolved not to hate her, he wasn't sure how to act. It was so much easier to hate her as though he were nothing but an extension of Colin. Acting simply of his own accord, he didn't know how _Logan Hayden_ felt about Rory Huntzberger. "What are you doing here?" It wasn't accusatory, as it would've been a few weeks ago; by the tone of his voice, it was actually slightly empathetic.

"I have a proposition for you. An offer you can't refuse," she joked with a salacious smile.

His eyes widened. "Oh, so when you said you didn't want to be friends, you meant…" he let the insinuation hang in the air, a sharp, lascivious grin on his face.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Hayden; I'm talking about a _business_ proposition—as in, concerning your newspaper, not your dick."

He laughed aloud, and a small grin tugged on the corners of her mouth. "Alright," he said, amused, and more than a bit intrigued. "Shoot."

"I want to write for you. I'm here to ask for a position as a staff writer."

This time, his eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. "Uh…" he broke off, baffled. "You—"

"As Renée Holloway," she clarified with that uncharacteristic shy, timid smile that he'd grown to adore. "I could give you work samples, but I know you've read plenty of them. Honestly, you could interview me until your throat is dry, but we both know that's unnecessary. You're a smart guy, you _know_ having Renée Holloway writing for _you_ and not the Daily News—especially after her last piece about your magazine—will give your publication enough credibility to expand further than you could've ever imagined."

"I… I don't know what to say," he admitted truthfully.

"Say yes," she said plainly, giving him a charming smile.

"I'd have to conceal your identity from everyone else working with us," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Of course," she verified smoothly. Eyebrows raised, she asked, "Will that be a problem?"

"No, I just…" his hesitancy was written all over his face, reflected in the furrow of his brows and etched in the curve of his lips. "You're right, this would be a _huge_ boost to Syntax and its credibility. What I don't understand is what _you're_ getting out of this. I'm really not trying to disparage your character here, but I can tell you're not doing this out of the spirit of the season or anything."

He didn't expect such a direct answer, so her succinct honesty threw him off a bit. "My father is investigating Renée Holloway—he thinks she's a threat to my dominance over the Daily News. The more he digs into her, the more he'll learn about her, and it won't be long after that until he realizes she doesn't exist. I…" she stopped abruptly, feeling paralyzed under the gaze of his attentive, perceptive eyes. She wasn't sure how she felt about his ability to throw her off her natural rhythm—in some ways, it was refreshing to have such a different dynamic with someone. In other ways, she was so far out of her comfort zone and she'd always thrived on structure, on order… on things she could predict.

"I need to take her out of the equation, but I can't just drop the name altogether; I've made so much progress writing under her, and I won't let that go to waste. At the same time, I can no longer do what I'm doing at the Daily News."

Logan's lips were pensive, thoughtful. "So you want to move her off your father's radar, while at the same time continuing to build her repertoire."

"Exactly," she said excitedly, perking up a bit more as he seemed to be seriously considering the idea.

"So… we'd be business partners," he said, tasting the words on his tongue, testing them out as one would an expensive wine.

"Yes," Rory said, brightening up at the prospect. She liked the idea of that—not friends, not enemies, but all the same, not _nothing._ Not strangers.

"Well, Huntzberger, it sounds like a good—"

"Rory," she interrupted, and he looked affronted. "Call me Rory, _please."_ She knew with certainty that she had never said the word 'please' with more sincerity and desperation in her life. " _Everyone_ calls me Huntzberger…" she broke off, the ' _…and I hate it'_ hanging between them, unspoken but understood.

"Rory," he said tentatively, the wavering of his voice betraying his unease. Truthfully, he hadn't _just_ called her Huntzberger as a formality, or to piss her off. He didn't _want_ to call her Rory. It was so too… intimate. And… _perfect_. It fit her so well, _too well_ —at least, it fit the person she was when they were alone.

Huntzberger was the public persona—an aggressive, over-confident girl who cared for no one but herself, who lived an extravagant lifestyle she did nothing to deserve, who was closed off, detached and unemotional; a girl who destroyed lives without a single thread of repentance, his best friend included.

 _Rory_ was the girl he'd seen glimpses of in private—a girl who was a little shy, a little timid, but intensely endearing and charming; a girl who enjoyed movies, junk food and stimulating conversation; a girl who preferred frank sincerity to schemes and manipulations, nights of solitude to sweaty, thumping nightclubs.

He didn't want to call her Rory—because then she'd _be_ Rory.

"Logan?" She questioned after he didn't speak for a moment.

A little half-smirk twitched on his face at the sound of his name on her lips. It was sweet and raw, like a careful caress.

"Alright, _Rory—_ welcome to Syntax."

 _Business partners,_ he said to himself, over and over again. _Business partners._ This was okay, _this_ was allowed. Colin was a very rational person; he'd surely agree that having Rory on staff would be a huge advantage for their paper, and Colin knew how much Syntax meant to Logan. He wouldn't be mad, not as long as business was the way their relationship stayed.

But of course it would stay that way. Why wouldn't it? There was nothing between them but a mutual love of journalism and the benefit they were both getting from this arrangement. _Right_?

* * *

 **Notes:** So Rory is standing up for herself and learning how to care again and she and Logan are _business partners._ Raise your hands if you think that Logan is wrong and their relationship isn't going to stay strictly business. ;)

 **Notes 2:** If you at all detected any underlying flirting between Rory and Aston, it's not intentional on either of their parts. I feel like, in the way I view Aston, that he's kind of a flirty person by nature, with everyone. And I feel the same of Rory _Huntzberger._ Not sure if I feel the same of Rory _Gilmore,_ but all the same...

Either way, Rory & Aston are never going to be romantic or even have underlying romantic vibes. They _will,_ however, find out at some point that they're related, and that'll be fun to write. So Aston's not going anywhere anytime soon. ;)

 **In Other News:** I'm actively seeking a beta. It's very important for me to have my story be fluid, my characterizations be consistent and my plots to be well tied together. I'm not really looking for someone to give me a grammar crash-course (although picking out a few of my typos would be great). I _am_ looking for someone to be a great plotting partner for me. The only two other people in my life who watch Gilmore are not enough. My best friend hasn't finished the series yet, and my mom - while a great editor for me - does not at all comprehend the concept of something this AU. When I tried to explain this story to her, she just went, 'Huh?' and 'How would that even be possible?' So if you are interested in helping a neurotic, (occasionally) insane but always entertaining writer fulfill the best Rogan stories she can write, (or if you know someone who might want to), please send me (or have _them_ send me) a PM. I'd love to hear from you. :)

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays (for whatever you celebrate) and Have a Great New Years, guys! :D

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you have comments, suggestions or constructive criticism. :)


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